Sunday night stories.

She stands in front of the mirror, slowly she starts taking the pins out of her hair. Staring at the girl opposite her she asks herself, when will it stop? And where does it end? She begins to question if there ever really is a light at the end of the tunnel. The look on her face is one of wonder and defeat, and if you didn’t know her it would seem to be a mask of sadness.
Not that anyone really knew her though. Because she floated through the day acting like other people and interacting with them, and everyday, as the ghost of her self floated along side her, she still asked herself what the point was.
The girls were still staring at each other.
She slipped out of her skirt and shook out her hair. With one more look she crawled into bed with the same unanswered questions that she slept with every night, knowing that there would never be someone there to answer them for her. So she slept, and dreamt up all the answers to get questions. Answers she would soon forget with the rising of the sun.
She shook out her hair and turned off the light, doesn’t it ever end?